


Guy Fawkes

by elldotsee



Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bonfire, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fix-It, Guy Fawkes Night, Hurt/Comfort, John's okay he's just a bit smoked, M/M, Molly Hooper - Freeform, Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, Not-Anthea - Freeform, Sherlock is back!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25146025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: Sherlock returns to London and to his John.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807645
Comments: 23
Kudos: 62
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Guy Fawkes

**Author's Note:**

> This is the part of the series where I will now veer wildly off-canon and write the rest of their story the way I see fit. Cuz I can. That's the beauty of fanfic. :) 
> 
> There will be no Mary in this series.

Sherlock finished buttoning his shirt and slid his arms into the Belstaff held out for him by Mycroft’s assistant, Not-Anthea, shocked that she was still around two years later. They hardly ever lasted that long. 

From the corner of the room, Mycroft cleared his throat as Sherlock gave himself a once-over in the mirror next to Mycroft’s desk. He glanced at his older brother, but didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer. He knew Mycroft didn’t need one; it would only encourage him. 

“A small thank you wouldn’t go amiss, brother mine.” Mycroft said loftily, pretending to study his fingernails. They had been recently manicured, Sherlock noticed. 

_ New manicurist- 27, allergic to dogs, American…  _ He shook his head swiftly to staunch the flow of deductions. He didn’t have time for that right now. Dismantling Moriarty’s network had taken much too long, and he had been detained in Serbia for two months before he had managed to finally escape, thanks to some careful planning and well-placed deductions. Mycroft’s men storming in had nearly ruined his entire plan. 

“Thank you? What for?” Sherlock scoffed.  _ Caesar salad for lunch, extra dressing and croutons, followed by five mini candy bars from the stash in the bottom right drawer that he thinks no one knows about—- _

Mycroft frowned. 

“I got you out. If I hadn’t sent them in, you would’ve been killed.”

Sherlock didn’t even bother replying. Now that he was finally back in London, he couldn’t wait to get home. He couldn’t wait to get to  _ John.  _

“He’s not there, you know.” The elder Holmes said quietly. It may have sounded gentle coming from someone less pompous. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He hated being deduced. 

Feigning innocence, he shrugged. 

“Who?”

Mycroft leveled a gaze at him, the one that clearly said  _ ‘Don’t be an idiot, Sherlock’.  _ It was the most annoying of all of his looks and Sherlock turned abruptly toward the door to block it out, grinning as his coat swirled around him. Oh, how he’d missed that. 

As he brushed past Not-Anthea where she stood at attention in the doorway, she whispered quietly, certainly too quiet for Mycroft to hear over the sound of his obese breathing, 

“Mr. Watson is at work at the clinic until 5 today.” 

Her lips barely moved, and she kept her eyes fixed straight ahead on her employer. Sherlock gaped at her for a moment before spinning on his heel and marching straight out of Mycroft’s office, breathing in the chilly air of a grey November day and smiling a secret smile. He was glad to be back in London.

* * *

Sherlock sat slumped in a corner of the crowded waiting room, waiting for the right moment to make his dramatic comeback. On the way to the clinic, he had made a quick stop to pick up some supplies. He hadn’t planned exactly what he was going to say, or how he was going to reveal himself, but he knew at least John would think the disguise was funny. So he sat and waited to hear his pseudonym called ( _ Lovich Kessler _ \- he thought it was clever, very clever. Didn’t expect John to get it, though Sherlock loved when John surprised him). While he waited, he tried to pass the time deducing the other patients, but the dark glasses he wore made it hard to see much. His scraggly beard itched something fierce and he longed for the comfort of his Belstaff as he sat stiffly, trying not to breathe in too many germs, or touch anything.

After a while, the door to the exam room opened, and a low, scratchy voice deadpanned the next patient’s name. Something about the voice sounded familiar to Sherlock, but it was as if a voice he recognized from the past had been rubbed over a cheese grater for some time before slithering out of the person’s mouth, listlessly forming consonants and vowels. Sherlock shifted in the molded plastic chair, trying to get a look at the owner of the cheese grater voice. From the angle of his chair, he could tell the man had greying hair and a weary slump to his shoulders. His clothes sagged around him as though he had lost weight recently and hadn’t bothered to replace them with properly fitted ones. As the patient approached the door, Sherlock strained his ears to hear the doctor’s name before the door shut, wondering if it was possibly a colleague of John’s that he’d met before and deleted. 

“Afternoon. I’m Dr. Watson.” 

* * *

Sherlock burst into Bart’s lab in a frantic swirl of coat tails, startling Molly Hooper so much that she dropped the bowl containing poor Helen Louise’s best asset. 

Some time later, when Helen’s brain was safely nestled inside the bowl again and Molly had procured the eyeballs Sherlock requested, Molly turned to Sherlock, scrutinising. 

“Have you been to see him yet, Sherlock?” 

The detective hummed, feigning innocence. It had proven to be a successful strategy thus far. Molly gave him a hard look, unfazed by his act. 

“ _ John,  _ Sherlock. _ ” _

“Oh...John” Sherlock tried for flippant, flapping his hand vaguely. “Yes, I saw him. Have you? They must really be working him at that ghastly clinic. He looks old.  _ Ancient _ . Either that, or he’s just really letting himself go, sliding into middle age with all the grace of a—” 

Molly cut him off, rounding on him with her hands on her slender hips. 

“Sherlock Holmes, don’t you dare! Do you have any idea,  _ any idea at all,  _ what he’s been through?  _ What he’s been through because of you??”  _

Though he’d never admit it, Sherlock thought Molly was terrifying when she was like this, all pointing fingers, and thin-lipped fury. He tossed his head, leaning back against the steel table. That seemed to deflate Molly’s anger slightly and she took a steadying breath, lowering her finger from where it was nearly jabbing his nose. 

“I can’t, Molly.” Sherlock’s voice sounded small to him. “I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid he’ll be angry with me and I’ll lose him. Again.” 

Molly pursed her lips and thought. After a few moments, she went to her desk and returned, typing into her phone. 

“There. I’ll help.” She showed Sherlock the screen, where the most recent sent text, to John Watson, read: 

**Meet me at Baker Street at half four?**

**Have something of yours you might want back.**

Sherlock turned to Molly, the corner of his mouth turned up into a tiny smile. Then, without giving it another thought, stepped forward and wrapped her into a tight hug. She stiffened slightly, then relaxed into the embrace, giving him a squeeze before stepping back. 

“You’re welcome”, she said warmly, correctly understanding his intentions. 

Patting his arm, she set her phone on the table next to the brain bowl and slid her goggles back into place. Sherlock took the hint and slipped out the door, heart pounding as he flagged down a cab to head to Baker Street for the first time in two years. 

* * *

Sherlock leapt up from his chair and paced the flat again; six steps to the fireplace, 90-degree turn, nineteen steps to the window, 45-degree turn towards the couch, three long steps (one over the coffee table) back to the chair. He checked his watch for what seemed like the millionth time, tapping it and holding it up to his ear to listen for the second hand’s metronomic tick. Still unsatisfied, he slid his phone out of his trouser pocket, impatiently stabbing the home button with one long finger. 4:56, the phone glowed mockingly. He sunk back down into his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. John had stood him up. No not quite. For all he knew, John had stood up… 

Molly! Fingers flying over the keys, he tapped out a quick text to Molly, glaring at the screen until her reply beeped its arrival. 

**Haven’t heard from him.**

**I hope everything is alright…**

**That’s not like him. I’ll try calling.**

Annoyed at her unhelpfulness, he jumped to his feet again and strode angrily into the kitchen. He was just about to slump into a kitchen chair when he noticed a long, dark scuff mark on the lino. Bending down, he lifted the bottom of the chair, rubbing his finger across the tip of the chair leg. He stood up, whirling around, eyes flicking hastily around the flat, taking in every detail he had missed in the 30 minutes he had been sitting - just  _ sitting! -  _ and waiting for John. A clump of mud, a smear of blood near the door. He closed his eyes briefly at the sight.  _ Not John’s, not John’s, please not John’s, _ he thought desperately. He touched the kettle with the back of his hand.  _ Still warm.  _ Without another moment’s hesitation, Sherlock spun on his heel and pounded down the stairs two at a time, wrenching open the door and flinging himself out onto the pavement. Three seconds passed while he stood there, his eyes moving rapidly back and forth as he tried to figure out where they could’ve taken John. They.  _ They. Someone. Who? Think...think...think!  _

Groaning to himself, he spun around again and opened the door, squeezing through and slamming it shut with enough force to shake the entire wall. There- taped to the door, a note. He pulled it down with shaking fingers. John was in danger and it was all his fault. Again. He blinked back the sudden tightness he could feel behind his eyes so he could read the words scrawled on the paper napkin: 

**_Save souls now! John or James Watson?_ **

He scowled. Who the hell was James Watson? Did John have a twin? He shook his head, silently scolding himself. It’s  _ never twins, Holmes.  _ Frustrated, he let his head drop against the door and the napkin slipped from his fingers. As he bent to pick it up, he realized there was writing on the reverse side too. 

**_Saint or Sinner? James or John? The more is less?_ **

Oh!  _ Brilliant.  _

Bolstered, he counted out the skip code with a trembling finger, already hurrying back out the door and motioning for a cab. The car had barely slowed when he flung open the door and slid across the seat, shouting to the cabbie. 

“Saint James the Less. And quickly! A man’s life is in danger!” 

Sherlock’s heart pounded out John’s name with every beat, taunting him. He clenched his fists on top of his knees and forced himself to breathe.  _ Not John, not John, not John.  _ When his phone buzzed its text alert, he nearly jumped out of his skin. 

**Getting warmer Mr Holmes**

**You have ten minutes**

He punched his fist into the cracked upholstered seat, yelling in frustration. The cabbie glared at him in the rearview mirror. 

“Hurry up!” Sherlock barked. 

The cabbie turned a corner and slammed on his brakes, narrowly avoiding the bumper of a car stopped behind a roadblock. With an agitated roar, Sherlock tossed money in the general direction of the front seat and tumbled out onto the pavement, taking off at a sprint. He flew down a steep set of cement steps, phone in hand, nearly dropping it when it vibrated again. 

**8 minutes… and counting…**

A few startled people turned their heads at his yelled expletive but he surged on, his coat flapping behind him. He skidded around a corner, holding onto a street sign, and nearly sunk to his knees in relief at the sight of the church, looming tall and dark over the city streets. His phone lit up again: 

**Better hurry**

**things are**

**hotting up here…**

Pumping his arms, he surged ahead, his feet slipping on the wet pavement as he gracelessly elbowed his way through the throngs of people. Two boys pushing a stroller knocked into him and the momentum nearly sent him flying. He desperately wanted to tell them off, but there wasn’t any time. Any minute now, John could be… His brain imagined all manner of horrific torturous deaths inflicted on his friend and flatmate, but suddenly, he stopped still in the middle of the pavement. A few people yelled as they swerved to avoid crashing into him. He spun around in a circle, taking in the chaos around him, truly looking at it for the first time. He grabbed a woman’s arm as she walked past. 

“Quick! What’s the date?” He shouted at her, eyes still scanning. 

“Oi! Let go o’ me, or I’ll call the police, I will!” 

“The date! What is the date!?” He snarled at her, releasing her arm. She scurried off, shouting over her shoulder, 

“Fifth of November, you bloody creep!” 

“Shit!” Yelling to no one in particular, he set off down the pavement at a full sprint.  _ Bonfire Night! Bonfire. Shit, shit, shit! What if he was too late? What if John was already ---  _

The newest text interrupted his panicked thoughts. 

**Stay of execution.**

**you’ve got two**

**more minutes**

Sherlock sped up another flight of stairs, tripping over his shoes in his haste and nearly sprawling on the top step. He spotted a large pile of wood on the other side of a grassy square and ran along the fence until he reached the opening. Sprinting across the grass, he barely felt the text vibration. His hands were numb; from cold or fear, he couldn’t be sure, and he fumbled his phone as he tried to read it. 

**What a shame**

**Mr Holmes.**

**John is quite a Guy!** ****

A strangled cry fell from his lips as a flash of light and heat indicated the bonfire’s ignition. He pushed through the crowd surrounding it, shoving people aside and screaming John’s name. 

“John! John!” Everyone was in his way. Couldn’t they hear his cries? “MOVE! JOHN!” 

Without a single second’s thought for his own safety, he plunged directly into the heart of the inferno, yanking out burning pieces of wood and tossing them aside, brushing off embers as they fell on him. His throat ached from the smoke, but he continued to shout John’s name. Finally, under the rubble, he spotted a hand, streaked with soot, pale and motionless. With an anguished cry, he grasped it and pulled, grateful when the rest of John’s limp body followed without getting caught on anything. He carefully dragged John over to a patch of wet grass and knelt down with his ear against John’s mouth. His breathing was quick and shallow, but relief flooded over Sherlock at the featherlight feeling of it against his skin. He straightened and patted John’s cheek, repeating his name. John’s eyelashes fluttered but his eyes remained closed. 

“John, please! Wake up! John, John!” He patted his cheek harder, using his other hand to shake his shoulder. 

“John…” He lowered his head to rest against John’s blackened forehead. His voice caught. “John, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, it was the only way. So many things I never said to you. I should have. I should’ve brought you with me. It wasn’t fair to you, it wasn’t fair.” His murmuring turned incoherent as his breath hitched, and he felt a lone tear squeeze out and trickle slowly down his nose. He didn’t want to lift his hand from John’s cheek to wipe it away. It dripped off the tip of his nose and landed on John, caught in one of the new frown lines bracketing his mouth. John shook his head minutely, but his eyes remained closed. His lips moved ever so slightly and Sherlock leaned down to hear. 

“Not real, not real, not real. He’s dead. He jumped and he died. He’s not real.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched at the raw sound of his best friend’s voice, thick with smoke and grief as he fought with his disbelief. 

“John. It really is me. Open your eyes. Please.” 

As if he’d been zapped with an electric shock, John’s eyes flew open. For a brief moment, they were hazy and unfocused, but then they locked on Sherlock’s. He heard John suck in a breath, but it quickly dissolved into a fit of coughing. Sherlock slid his arm under John’s shoulders and pulled him to a sitting position, patting him lightly between the shoulder blades. After a few moments, John regained his breath and simply sat staring wide-eyed at Sherlock. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. With trembling fingers, he lifted his left hand and gingerly traced Sherlock’s cheekbone. 

“Real.” John’s whispered word was laced with incredulity. 

Sherlock nodded, not trusting his voice. 

With a choked sob, John threw his arms around him. Startled, Sherlock froze, but after only a moment, returned the hug fiercely. John whimpered in his arms as Sherlock rubbed soothing circles on his back. His hand slid up to cup the back of John’s neck, holding his face tight against his shoulder.  _ My John _ . It felt so right to hold him in his arms, to comfort him like this. 

A siren wailed nearby, making them both jump. John sniffled, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Sherlock pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to John, climbing gracefully to his feet and offering his hand. He led him to the back of the waiting ambulance and did not let go of his hand throughout the entire exam, squeezing it reassuringly each time John glanced furtively over at him, as though still afraid it was all still a dream. 

The paramedics wanted to transport John to the hospital, but he waved them off after a bit of oxygen. John could tell Sherlock was anxious to get back to Baker Street. Home. He slid carefully out of the ambulance and reached once more for Sherlock’s hand, tugging on it until they were face to face. 

Leaning in and gesturing for Sherlock to do the same, he spoke in a low voice. 

“All this doesn’t mean,” he gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze, “that I’m not basically still pissed off at you. You have a lot of explaining to do.” He drew a deep breath, shuddering on the exhale. “But I am bloody glad you’re alive, Sherlock Holmes. Let’s go home.” 


End file.
